


Bathwater

by BellaFuckingRockwell



Series: 10 Songfics Challenge - House [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad Wilson, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 17:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20979551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/BellaFuckingRockwell
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.Doing the 10 Fics/10 Songs challenge again, this time in the Houseverse. Playlist goes on shuffle and for the first ten songs that come up I write a short fic inspired by it.Fic 2: No Doubt - BathwaterSummary: Wilson knows he has no right to be jealous of the women House pays for their company.





	Bathwater

They've never had any conversations about exclusivity.

Wilson really wants to have them. But something stops him. If House said no, he'd shatter. But if House said yes... well, that could destroy everything. 

Then again, he's already dancing dangerously close to that line. If House happened to look out of his window right now, peer out into the street, he'd see Wilson sitting in his car. He's not intending to pay him a visit. And it's not stalking either, he reminds himself, because he's not here to watch House. He's here to watch who comes over. He knows he has no right to be jealous of the women House pays for their company, given that they're not really together, and he isn't. He just wants to understand it. Wants to know what House gets from them that he can't get from Wilson. 

He has his theories. When he's alone in that bleak hotel room, trying to get comfortable on a mattress that's too soft, the ruminations find him long before sleep does. He often wonders if it's the lack of threat. Escorts don't get paid to give a fuck about him, to form any kind of connection with him that lasts more than a few hours, and House must know that they don't give him a second thought when they leave. It's safer that way. Safer than Wilson, who thinks about him a lot. 

He thinks about the fear he recognises in House's increasingly hesitant touch, the same one that drives Wilson not to spend the night: the fear that something more than just sex will sneak up on them before they realise it, and with their respective track records in that department, that's an incredibly dangerous thing. Sure, they could be happy. Things could be different for a while. At least, until a pretty nurse gives Wilson the eye. Until House feels exposed, vulnerable, and snaps shut like an oyster. Until Wilson showers off the nurse's perfume at work and comes home two hours late with takeout and a guilty smile. Until House does something insane to get high, something even worse than faking cancer, something so ridiculous that not even Wilson can defend him. 

Wilson drums his fingers on the steering wheel. A woman walks by in heels and a long coat, wrapping her arms around herself to shut out the New Jersey winter, and he watches her intently. She doesn't even glance at House's door as she walks by. 

Is it the anonymity of it that's exciting, the taboo? Is it routine, like watching one of his soaps, just something he does to zone out a bit? Or is it an addiction, just like his pills? Does he tell them he's a doctor? Does he tell them anything about himself at all? Does he mention Wilson?

The radio hums at a low volume; Wilson doesn't want to draw attention to himself, but he always needs something to soften the silence these days. 

He wonders if House actually fucks them, or if they just get him off with their hands. 

Wilson is so sick of _silence_, of loneliness. Is House not? He must be, because why else would he hire someone to take it away for a few hours? 

There's another woman passing him on the pavement. Her legs are bare, and all Wilson can think is that she'll catch hypothermia if she's not careful. 

Does House shove his mouth against their cunts with a ravenous fervour, use his fingers? Does he ever make them cum? Is his heart really in it?

His eyes follow the woman as she stops outside House's apartment building. Oh, God, no.

She's a brunette, hair spilling down to her scapulae. Her high heeled boots have a glittery pattern, they catch the glow of the streetlights, and Wilson can see the hint of a black dress peeking out beneath her jacket. When House meets her at the front door, still wearing the same clothes he had on at work today, he doesn't smile, barely glances over her, and he seems to hesitate a moment before ushering her inside and slamming the door shut with his cane. 

And Wilson starts the car, and he aches and aches, and he thinks of his quiet hotel room, and he wonders why he does it to himself. Wonders why there's only one question he asks himself over and over: does House at least think of him when he cums?


End file.
